


I sink upon your image

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Art Thief AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, This has a gratuitous amount of hidden memes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After getting his heart broken, Viktor ends up in Paris for one last job to steal Renoir.-He had been promised that this wouldn’t be a repeat of the Dali incident. Nor the mess that was the Munch that had followed, nor Korovin, and nor Caillebotte.That was how he found himself in France. In the city of Love.That was where he found him again.





	1. They may have been right about suffering, though you wish they had warned: It’s the same for love

 

“Viktor, he wants a Renoir.”

 

When the phone call had come through two weeks ago he had refused and without waiting for a reply, cut the call, tossing his phone across the room, and pulling the sheets over his face to fall back into despondent slumber. Curling into himself he had tried to convince himself that he couldn’t go back. He had tried hardening his heart and continuing, but failure after failure and heart ache had left him overwhelmed.

 

He’d decided that maybe he should call it quits.

 

His protests had proven themselves fruitless when Chris had turned up at his door, sweet words falling from his lips, murmurs of: “Mon chéri, you’ll be free after this. It will be over.” That had been enough to convince him.

 

He had been promised that this wouldn’t be a repeat of the Dali incident. Nor the mess that was the Munch that had followed, nor Korovin, and nor Caillebotte.

 

That was how he found himself in France. In the city of Love- loveless.

 

He was lounging against one of the trees in the elegantly lined streets of West Paris, blending in with the affluent air of the western suburbs. The sun beat down on the cobbled pavements, and he flicked his hair out of his eyes praying he didn’t look as disoriented as he felt.

 

He hadn’t needed Chris to tell him how sharp he looked in his Zegna, as he had gotten dressed. Nor did he need him hanging off his arm, acting as a shield or even more likely- a babysitter. His mood soured at the thought. He knew it wasn’t up to Chris whether he had to accompany him or not, but precautions were precautions and Viktor had messed up one time too many after the Dali incident.

 

They had come for a Renoir, and from Mila they had heard it was being held in auction in Saint-German-en-Laye. After pinpointing the location and deciding on the date they’d be able to scout out the place they were on their way to the showroom.

 

It was a portrait, almost inconsequential to most people, to him, if not for the fact that Yakov had demanded they retrieve it. In the same way the countless Degas’, or Manet’s that he had deemed inconsequential in his childhood became consequential with Yakov’s want. With Lilia’s need.

 

 _La Rêverie_ , the name tag read, and Viktor took a deep breath. With Chris’s arm on his waist, comfort, protection, and precaution, he sighed and stared at the array of brushstrokes. The soft features of the woman stared back at him, her dark eyes melancholy, even as a small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. Her cheeks red, the background pink, her hair red. Everything was sketchy, almost unfocused, the style that most impressionists possessed- but her eyes. Dark and vulnerable. More detailed than any part of the painting. Taunting, assessing- sad.

 

He licked his lips, looked away, looked back. His heart was doing strange things the longer he stared. It reminded him of a dimly lit room, a twenty million pound painting, Beethoven playing softly, and dark eyes.

 

_The pain passes, but beauty remains_

 

He was here for a job, not to be caught up in his typical spiel of self loathing. He eyed the frame, considered the weight, the length. Considered whether he would be able to get away with this on his own. Chris gently pushed him from his place leading him to the next painting, whispering about measurements- thieves thought alike after all. They circled the room, stopping occasionally to admire and discuss paintings, looking the perfect picture of rich foreigners consulting each other for possible purchases. They had done this enough times to be considered proficient.

 

Until his fuck up with the Dali. Until the three fuck ups that had followed.

 

They ended back to _La Rêverie,_ silently staring as she gazed back.

 

“She’s a beauty isn’t she?” Chris asked, his voice was soft, his eyes assessing him instead of the painting. Viktor shrugged noncommittally.

 

“I don’t like it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the gilded frame. His heart felt like it was sinking every time he turned back to the actual painting, it’s silent, motionless existence. Chris tutted at his response, shooting him a smile.

 

“You’ll grow to soon enough. We’ll be back in two days,” he murmured, thumbing through his phone, sending off a quick text. Viktor hummed, neither agreeing, nor disagreeing. He let himself be lead towards the doors, happy to be out of the overtly luxurious showroom. Chris was flippantly discussing a bakery he had visited on his last trip to Paris, and how they had to try their macarons. Viktor nodded along, perking up at the mention of food- at the thought of leaving this place behind even if it was for a little while.

 

Chris went ahead to open the glass door, gesturing for him to exit. He grinned, turned back to look over the room a final time, when he saw _him_.

 

He was in full uniform gazing at a Manet, _The Banks of the Seine,_ not ten meters away.

 

Time seemed to come to a standstill as he stared at him, his eyes ardently taking in every detail.

 

He hadn’t seen him yet, his dark eyes averted towards another direction, his red lips parted unconsciously. His long lashes were casting shadows on his skin, and Viktor recalled kissing those cheeks, could recall the feel of eyelashes against his lips. He had dreamed of him for two years, of the concept of him years before that until he had finally met him, and then had surrendered him as a memory.

 

Chris noticing his sudden change in demeanor paused at the door turning to him, question ready on his lips. He didn’t get a chance to ask before Yuuri was turning around, his eyes meeting Viktor’s from across the room.

 

Viktor held his breath.

 

Watched Yuuri’s mouth part in surprise, his eyes widen. Viktor’s heart thundered in his chest, ready to burst at any moment. There was no love, no delight on his face that used to render his features soft and lovely every time he saw Viktor. There was frantic energy to him, as he started to move towards them. Towards him. Viktor didn’t have time to move, he wouldn’t have if he had been able to, before Yuuri Katsuki descended on him. He was beautiful even in his distress, and Viktor couldn’t breathe.

 

His hands were tight around the lapels of his suit, his expression screwed into one of abject anguish, his eyes crinkled painfully and Viktor couldn’t make eye-contact. He couldn’t do this again.

 

“Why _here_?” his voice was shaking. Viktor’s mouth was dry. “Why? Why? Why are you here. Please. Please don’t be here. Please don’t-”

 

Viktor didn’t notice himself being tugged away from Yuuri. He could feel each breath escaping him painfully, could feel the splintering of his heart.

 

“That was him, huh?” Chris asked him later, sitting at a small cafe overrun by tourists. The sun was sinking over busy Parisian streets, the lights scattered across the city like a celebration. Chris lit a cigarette, offering it to him. Viktor shook his head, echoes of past chastisements ringing in his head, changed his mind last moment and shakily took it.

 

Dark eyes, a Dali, a dark house where their hearts used to beat.

 

He took a long drag, exhaled. “Yeah, that was him.”

 

* * *

 

Glasgow was cold. Much colder than any part of England, and had easily hit the minuses in the middle of October. He sighed speeding up, and blended in easily with the throngs of university students that ran from the park to classes, laughed with friends and tried their best to find shelter from the falling snow underneath the tree tops.

 

The Kelvingrove Art gallery stood proudly between the trees, and he narrowly dodged a speeding bicycle to make his way into the car park that lead to the entrance. The golden lights flooded through the arcs and he paused, looking up at the museum.

 

The proud home of _Christ of the Saint John of the Cross_ by Salvador Dali. He smiled, tracing his eyes over the single security guard standing beside the gift shop on the ground floor. The majority of the people there were children and elders. A few workers, one or two students darting between galleries and snapping pictures of the stuffed animal exhibits. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Yakov’s request, this was almost too easy.

 

After darting through the Tate with a Van Gogh in his arms, and spending three weeks in Paris trying to secure a Matisse, Viktor was considering just pulling down the Dali wherever it was and walking out with it. He was sure the single security guard by the door wouldn’t mind. He seemed sweet enough when Viktor had entered, shooting him a smile. It seemed that English coldness didn’t extend to Scotland.

 

He turned into one of the great halls and started making his way up the stairs towards the galleries. The ground floor had been overrun with fun activities for children and historical Scottish exhibits.

 

When he had been debriefed about his task by Mila, he’d been left with the impression that he would be walking into a heavy security art gallery, with twenty four hour surveillance around all the paintings. Instead he was surrounded by excited four year olds and their grandparents, with a single security guard as he casually made his way through the halls following signs leading him to the prized Salvador Dali painting.

 

He heard the music before he actually saw the painting, and the familiarity of it had him pause. Moonlight Sonata drifted through the small room with a proud sign signalling the Dali. He was the only one there.

 

His shoes clacked against the polished floors as he entered the room, and immediately he felt like he’d entered a Church. The painting was huge, hung in the centre with soft golden show lights illuminating it, casting shadows from the frame to the small wooden bench in the center of the room. Viktor licked his lips, unable to tear his eyes away as he took in the full impression of the painting.

 

His eyes traced over the smoothly blended back muscles, moving over the length of the cross. His inner art enthusiast couldn’t help but admire the angle, the perspective. The style that held true to Dali even in its religious context.

 

“You know there’s a seat there?”

 

Viktor’s froze, as he tore his eyes away from St John and turned to the source of his near heart attack. He hadn’t heard anyone coming towards the room, he had been sure the hallways behind him had been entirely empty. If Yura was here he’d call him an old man, losing the ability to pay attention to his surroundings. A lousy thief.

 

“I thought sitting wouldn’t be respectful,” he responded, shooting an unconcerned smile at stranger.

 

The man was East Asian, dark hair, dark eyes, and a soft smile on his face. He was wearing a vest over his suit identifying him as security. Viktor tried his best not to look too surprised at the turn of events. It seemed like Dali did have protection after all. He could work with that, he just needed to get in touch with Georgi, map out the place and figure out the man’s shifts. This would be an in and out job.

 

“It’s not disrespectful, that’s why there’s a seat,” he cleared his throat, turned his head awkwardly. There was a small dusting of red on his cheeks. “I mean, if you want to sit that is. I’m sorry if I sounded rude.”

 

He moved, slowly settling on the bench in front of the painting, Moonlight Sonata continued to ring through the room, between the cracks of the gilded picture frame that would probably be a bitch to cut the painting out of, and around the silence of the room. He tilted his head, eyeing the man still stood by the door.

 

“You weren’t rude, don’t worry.”

 

Viktor’s biggest flaw in these things was that he was the exact opposite of what a thief should be. He wasn’t inconspicuous, he wasn’t careful, he stood out like a sore thumb with his silver hair and his height. He was always a foreigner, in a place like Russia, in his own home he still stood out. He talked to security guards, he made friends with the cleaners in museums and art galleries. He talked to auctioneers and charmed rich old ladies who had too much money with no idea how to spend it. He knew his disadvantages but he had a silver tongue and charm. He had his own language that was both beautiful and lethal, and his mouth bled every time he spoke it.

 

He heard a soft “Oh,” and found himself looking at the flush on the man’s face growing darker. Viktor had to suppress a smile. This would be easy.

 

He knew what he had to do.

 

“I’m Sergei Korovin, auctioneer from St Petersburg, what’s your name?” he extended his hand, his prettiest smile stretching across his face.

 

The man stared at his hand wordlessly, a deer caught in the headlights. Viktor waited, his hand held out- an offering, a question.

 

The man took it, his grip gentle in Viktor’s, the callouses of his fingers rough against his own.

 

“Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

 

Yuuri was staring at him with dark, hopeful eyes, blush visible on his high cheekbones. Viktor was still smiling as he brought Yuuri’s hand to his lips. Pressing a kiss to his knuckles, he felt his pulse rocket.

 

He tasted blood.

 

“Pleasure to meet you.”


	2. If only for that night, for an hour, for a moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Renoir sat in a showroom with a high price waiting to be auctioned, La Rêverie’s haunting dark eyes staring back at him. 
> 
> Yuuri was there again, somehow hurtling into his life, reminding Viktor of what he had. 
> 
> What he lost.

Chris had left him to his own devices an hour ago, tired of trying to coax him, first gently, then more forcefully. He’d tried calling Mila, then Yura, as if they’d be able to miraculously find some sort of cure for his wretched state . He hadn't wanted to be difficult, but he knew he already was despite his best intentions.

 

However, seeing Yuuri again had felt like his whole world was falling apart around him. It felt as if he was drowning and breathing for the first time.

 

He had needed Chris to leave him alone. He needed him to understand that his whole body felt like it was wading through molasses, that he felt like he was asphyxiating from the sheer flood of memories. He felt like his heart was expanding, enlarging, awakening.  

 

A Renoir sat in a showroom with a high price waiting to be auctioned, _La Rêverie_ ’s haunting dark eyes staring back at him.

 

Yuuri was there again, somehow hurtling into his life, reminding Viktor of what he had.

 

What he lost.

 

Watching the setting sun from the balcony of the small flat that Yakov had bought in Paris, Victor closed his eyes. In the soft yellows that spread through the room, illuminating the expensive decorations, the gilded edges of his bed, he felt himself crumble.

 

The golden band hanging from the chain around his neck weighed heavily on him. There was no one there to see him break down, no one there to see him at all. He had memories of fond winters, promises of cheerful autumns and after a snowy night he had nothing. He took a deep breath- He was stoic, calm, tranquil. Another deep breath, and he thought about him. Forgot about everyone else, who thought he was so brave working the way he had just to hide his broken heart. Yuuri was here. Yuuri was okay.

 

In the valley of sorrow he was spreading his wings.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had recoiled from his touch, and Viktor had stopped himself from licking his lips, the press of his knuckles felt strangely like imprints. The heat of his skin against his lingering. There was no anger in Yuuri’s eyes, just plain embarrassment, and it was ridiculous how he had immediately found it endearing instead of annoying. That should have been the first warning

 

“You’re literally named after a famous Russian painter?” Yuuri had asked after an awkward pause. Viktor could feel a flush rising up his face at the observation, not having  expected to be so easily caught out by his  inability to be creative while naming himself. Sure, he adored Korovin’s style, maybe it was his favourite. Why couldn’t he be named after a famous painter without it being weird and suspicious?

Children were named after celebrities all the time, he was sure he’d heard someone announcing their name as ‘Naruto’ a few weeks ago.

 

So what if Korovin was more cultural and pretentious? Most people didn’t even know who he was so he’d been able to recycle it plenty of times.

 

Until now that was.

 

“My parents were very eccentric,” Viktor said, a small smile tugging at his lips. The words tasted like ash on his tongue. _Eccentric_ . That was definitely one way to put it. His parents _were_ eccentric. More than eccentric, they were a little thoughtless, and more than a little forgetful.

 

They probably expected him to be lounging in some yacht with his supposed rich friends in the Caribbeans somewhere at this very moment. His parent’s didn’t expect their young, eligible, intelligent son to be participating in a well planned heist to steal a twenty million pound painting.

 

Yuuri laughed at his response, his eyes crinkling, and Viktor’s heart jumped at the sight.

 

“Sergei is a nice name. It suits you,” he said. He could feel his smile freezing. Sergei _was_ a nice name, but it wasn’t his name. Would Yuuri think Viktor suited him as a name? Was he even Viktor after this?

 

He wore Sergei Korovin like a costume, another person. After Sergei would come Alexei, then Vitaly, till there was no room left inside of him for himself.

 

“Thank you. So, Yuuri,” he persisted in his terrors, struggled to keep his lips stretched into a plastic smile. Yuuri blinked back at him with those long, long lashes, tilting his head and occasionally casting an eye out over the empty halls of the museum. “When do you get off your shift?”

 

Yuuri didn’t even bother looking at the watch strapped around his wrist.

 

“I think it’s time for my lunch break.”

 

* * *

 

“So Georgi’s joining us for the surveillance.”

 

Viktor dropped the blueprints outlining the floor map of the gallery. He could feel his eyebrows furrowing as he took in Chris’s relaxed posture from where he lay’ half sprawled on the french settee.

 

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he managed to choke out. Chris shrugged, without bothering to look up from his phone.

 

“I’m joking.”

 

Viktor was torn between laughing or crying. Georgi was the last person he needed at this moment. He was the only one that had been with him in the aftermath of the Dali. Of the Korovin and Caillebotte. Somehow the Munch disaster had been his to bear alone, and there was no other way he’d rather have that. But Georgi knew too much as it was, and with Yuuri here he was the last person he wanted to be working on the heist.

 

“ _Merde_.”

 

Chris tutted at his crass language, tossing his phone aside and fixing his gaze on Viktor.

 

“Was he there?” he asked instead.

 

Viktor averted his eyes, taking a deep breath.

 

Thought of cold fingers against his, small shy smiles and not so secret glances from under long lashes. He thought of quiet footsteps, and ragged breaths. He thought of the shadows and silence, and the sound of the river, and a hushed: “Stay with me.”

 

_Always. Always. Always._

 

Viktor scoffed.

 

“Was anyone?”

* * *

 

Viktor hadn’t planned on becoming a ‘heist artist’, as Chris liked to call it. There wasn’t anything artistic about it. Though, Chris had confessed on a snowy morning in St Petersburg, the sheer irony of it made him laugh.

 

Later that day they had successfully stolen a Brodsky for Yakov.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t planned on becoming much at all. He had planned on getting away,and though he wasn’t entirely sure where to,  it was away he went.

 

He had been wandering the streets of Moscow, too much money in his pockets, when his interest had been piqued by the bright lights of an art gallery.

 

He’d entered the grand looking building only find himself in the midst of an exhibition. The name boasted ‘Pissarro,’ and from the first image he saw he was immediately enraptured. The paintings spanned across the hall from dotted landscapes, the dim lights, to portraits and figures, and the style of it immediately drawing him in.

 

He had made his way from painting to painting, enchanted. His fingers had itched with the need to do something. To create- to feel.

 

He lightly stroked the edge of the silver frame. What would a painting of a city scape make him feel? Should it make him feel anything at all? He ran his fingers over the glass, his reflection casting shadows on the painting.

 

The overwhelming need to feel some form of imperishable bliss.

 

From the corner of his eye he could see an elegant lady in a yellow evening dress staring at him. A dark haired boy was talking intently  to the balding man beside her

 

He moved onto the next painting, _The Boulevard Montmartre at Night,_ carefully keeping an eye on them. The lady murmured something and the others’ attention turned towards him.  He could feel himself go cold with the weight of their stares on his back.

 

It wasn’t till after he’d left, and the exhibition had ended that he heard it. The sound of shattering glass. He was at the back of the building before he knew it, out of breath, and face to face with a black haired boy.

 

He held a painting in his arms, and before Viktor could say anything, the boy spoke up.

 

“There’s two more inside, please help me.”

 

He was reckless. He hadn’t thought he was troubled, drumming, the offer tempting and the waves had swallowed him whole.

 

That night three paintings were stolen, and Viktor Nikiforov had never felt more alive.

 

Dostoevsky's cats nine lives.  

 

His first one was down.

 

* * *

 

The Kelvingrove wasn’t a large museum, and to be fair, most of the commodities Scotland boasted as ‘large’ weren’t. They were small and beautiful. Most people were kind and hospitable, and spoke with fast, heavy accents that left him confused.

 

“I don’t understand some of them either,” Yuuri had whispered conspiratorially to him, three weeks after Viktor had become a common visitor. “Just nod and smile.”

 

Viktor had watched, open mouthed as Yuuri had proceeded to do just that with a lovely elderly couple, who greeted him and started conversing about the weather. Viktor couldn’t exactly blame them. The weather was more often than not less than favourable, and always an adventurous topic to divulge into.

 

He had been scoping the hallways for cameras to relay information to Georgi when he was left dumbstruck as he watched Yuuri wink at him over the couple's heads. He felt a blush rising on his cheeks.

 

When they had moved onto the Pringle installment, he slid up to him, a teasing smile already on his lips. His nine lives, one gone, waiting to be used, and he was never careful.

 

“You winked at me.” He was stating the obvious, but Yuuri seemed to be entirely too amused by this, staring up at him from behind his blue rimmed glasses, his eyes twinkling with mirth. The corners of his mouth were twitching, as if he was struggling to fight back a smile.

 

“Did I?”

 

His fingers were warm when they brushed against his, unsure. Viktor hesitated, took his hand in his, gently entwining their fingers. Yuuri averted his eyes, biting his lip to keep the pleased smile from spilling over. Viktor wanted to turn his face and kiss him.

 

“You did,” his voice was soft.

 

“Sergei, I have to work.”

 

Just like that he came back to reality. His reality, Sergei’s reality. The foreign name rolled off his tongue so lovingly and Viktor wondered what his own name would sound like in Yuuri’s accent.  

 

To Yuuri he had to become the best version, a myth more radiant than any, sculpted in ice and silver. He had to become him, and he was.

 

“I’ll stand with you by the Dali,” he said, tugging him towards the room. He heard Moonlight Sonata from the distance, took a deep breath.

 

“Don’t you have work to do?” Yuuri asked, seeming far too happy to have Viktor close to him, his face flushed, the pleased smile never leaving left his face. Viktor wished he could see more, his pride at a single smile, an easily forgotten moment, was overbearing. But he wanted more. He was greedy, he felt his previous morales falling to shambles around him.

 

He wanted more. He wanted to feel more.

 

Dostoevsky’s cats nine lives- he hoped desperately. Even as his heart ached, he couldn’t do it. One life was gone. Eight to go.

 

But he couldn’t let hope be his downfall.

 

“I am working,” he had said, playing absentmindedly with Yuuri’s fingers.

 

The words rang like a confession.

 

Yuuri didn’t hear it, just pressed himself a little closer, made him fall a little harder.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not here as your babysitter Viktor.”

 

He was not sulking, except for the fact that Georgi and Chris had taken turns to tell him that he looked like he was eighteen again and was about to throw a tantrum.

 

“Why are you even here?” he asked, his voice sounding more tired than he had intended it to. Georgi looked slightly startled, but it was hard to tell in the dim light and honestly his heavily layered eyeshadow made it difficult to decipher certain expressions. He looked distressed more often than not after his breakup with Anya.

 

“Yakov sent me. He seemed worried.”

 

Viktor snorted, shooting Chris a look. Chris refused to let any sort of crack in his perfect stoic mask show, he just looked back at him, refusing to give him any leeway and shrugged. Viktor could feel his heart sinking, even as he struggled to keep himself put together.

 

“Why on earth would Yakov be worried?” he asked, not really looking Georgi in the eyes. He heard him sigh.

 

“After the Caillebotte anyone would be worried Viktor.” He winced then, the enormity of his mistake, the years and years lost on that painting, on all the paintings that decorated various locations that no one but Lilia would see weighed heavily on him.

 

The beauty passes, the pain remains. Or was it the other way around?

 

* * *

 

He had told Georgi the coordinates, but it had been five weeks and he was sure that Yakov was getting restless. He was running out of excuses and even Georgi was growing agitated. His incessant complaints about being unable to see his own girlfriend were getting on his nerves.

 

After his tenth excuse to Georgi about why, even though he was completely versed in the schedule of the security guards was he not making a move on the small, insubstantial museum, he came to the realisation that he may be a little, if not completely in love.

 

He had had to sit down, Georgi’s eyes trained on him through the screen of his laptop as he took in a shaky breath. Dostoevsky’s nine lives. The cat.

 

Viktor was reckless.

 

His first life was spent alone, uneasiness prevalent and heavy on his soul. Pissarro, Degas, Matisse, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Picasso, Greco, it was all a blur of golden thoughts, and all the words in him had seemed to become throbbing pulses. His lethal language, his woeful existence, the blood that spilled from his lips.

 

_He was lonely._

 

Yuuri was not reckless. He was careful, and soft, and the lights around the Dali softened his features and his eyes seemed darker than the night in that room. Beethoven played on a loop, and since Yuuri had been installed specifically in that area that’s where he always found him. He had heard Yuuri humming along to it sometimes, the only indication of his silent presence.

 

They had laughed over cups of bad coffee, thrown muddy snowballs at each other, and talked and talked. God he didn’t think he had talked to anyone so much in his entire life. Yuuri had fallen asleep on his shoulder while they sat across from the Dali on a windy Tuesday evening and Viktor had prayed.

 

_Let me have this. Let me have a little more time._

 

He was warm and sweet, and Viktor could see it from his expression that he wasn’t alone in his affections. He could see it from the soft curve of his mouth to the way his eyes would land on Viktor from across the hall, and he’d brighten up.

 

He would make him laugh. Breathless and _real._ He’d replayed that sound in his head, over and over, overwhelmed, _happy._

 

He was happy.

 

Five weeks, and Viktor came to the realisation that the most beautiful moments seemed to accelerate and slip beyond his grip just when he realised they were the ones worth holding on to the most.

 

Viktor came to the realisation that he was in love.

* * *

 

_As if delight was the most serious thing you had ever felt._

 

* * *

 

Returning to the gallery was something he both anticipated and dreaded. He had dreamed of the moment he’d meet him again. He had dreamed that Yuuri had ceased to love him, that he had another body beside him in bed keeping him warm. He knew it was what Yuuri deserved, someone that would love him undeniably, irrevocably and completely.

 

Someone that would stay when he asked them to stay.

 

_Always._

 

“Viktor,” Georgi sighed, and he turned to him startled. When had the sun broken out above the roofs of the rows of flats? How long had he been sitting there staring disinterestedly out into the slowly awakening world.

 

Georgi looked tired, bags under his blue eyes, frown lines around his mouth. They both were only twenty eight, they shouldn’t look so sick of the world. So exhausted by the thought of a new day.

 

“Yes?”

 

“The original plan was for you to go back for recon today, but since _he’s_ there we don’t really have any confirmation that he won’t call the cops on you. So I was thinking-”

 

“He didn’t call anyone on him last time,” Chris interjected smoothly.

 

Viktor’s head whipped towards his voice. How long had he been there?

 

He was standing with two cups of tea in his hands. Already impeccably dressed in a red cashmere high neck and dark jeans. Viktor swallowed back a weak: ‘Thanks,’ as Chris placed a cup across from him. Chamomile.

 

“Nor did he this time. Honestly if anything, Georgi, Viktor can take advantage of that.”

 

Of him. Like Viktor had last time. It was unsaid, but there all the same. Maybe they weren’t aware of the blood that spilled from his mouth and remained drenched on his skin. Through and through.

 

“He has a name you know,” Viktor said quietly. There was a vulnerability in his voice that he hadn’t meant for to be there. He never did. It was spilling over now that he felt stretched so thin.

 

Neither of them said anything in response, and Viktor turned away from them. Back to staring over the roofs of the city. The streets seem to be filling up.

 

Somewhere. Somewhere down there was Yuuri.

 

Seven lives or six? Maybe Yuuri was all nine and none.  

 

“We know Vitya,” Georgi finally said. He sounded pitying and Viktor had to bite his lip from retorting sharply.

 

They didn’t.

 

It was small comfort. Maybe a curse, but they didn’t know anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boulevard Montmartre at Night by Pissaro [here](http://www.galleryintell.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/Pisarro-the-boulevard-montmartre-at-night-1897-e1490031891214.jpg)
> 
> The mentions of Dostoevsky's cat come from his letter to Alexander Wragnel which states:  
> "I always have the feeling that I am going to begin to live! Ridiculous, isn’t it? The cat and its nine lives?"


	3. I received you in my soul- in my whole consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you like the painting?” his mouth felt dry even as he asked him, his eyes caught up in tracing the heavy eyelashes that cast shadows on his cheeks. He didn’t miss the way Yuuri licked his lips, didn’t miss the small twitch as he suppressed a smile.
> 
> “It’s beautiful. I’d be an idiot to hate it, and still guard it,” he said, his eyes flicking to Viktor and away.

 

“What do you think about the Dali?” Viktor asked, breaking the silence that they’d settled comfortably into. 

 

The patter of rain against the glass panes beat on around them, only dimmed by the immutable sound of Beethoven. Yuuri was staring at the painting, the expression on his face unreadable, and Viktor- Viktor was staring at him.  

 

Yuuri was so close to him that he could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He could stretch out his arm and pull Yuuri’s head to his shoulder. He could move closer and have their thighs touch- become an extension of him, of each other.

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

He looked into his eyes, forgot the Dali. It was like looking into a rainstorm at moonlight.

 

“Do you like the painting?” his mouth felt dry even as he asked him, his eyes caught up in tracing the heavy eyelashes that cast shadows on his cheeks. He didn’t miss the way Yuuri licked his lips, didn’t miss the small twitch as he suppressed a smile.

 

“It’s beautiful. I’d be an idiot to hate it, and still guard it,” he said, his eyes flicking to Viktor and away. 

 

Viktor’s smile faltered, maybe for a second too long. 

 

 

“What do you think about it, Sergei?” 

 

He didn’t let his smile falter again. 

 

“It’s beautiful. Not as beautiful as the man guarding it though.” 

 

It was cheesy, he knew. A badly conducted flirtation even for his standard. But, there was no bitter aftertaste to his words. There was truth that he wasn’t entirely ready to acknowledge. Even as he looked back at Yuuri, who was watching him earnestly, there was no denying the physical attraction. 

 

The emotional was a whole other sea, and he wasn’t ready to dive into it. 

 

Yuuri flushed- it was so easy to make him blush- but there was no embarrassment in his expression. He seemed quietly pleased, his eyes shining with the very something that Viktor refused to pay too much attention to. 

 

“I’m serious, Sergei. What’s your favourite painting?” Yuuri asked, pushing back his glasses and bumping his shoulder against his lightly. 

 

Viktor licked his lips. 

 

He’d played this  game before. 

 

He’d say ‘The Kiss by Klimt’ smile flirtily, and then continue charming the other person. He had done it hundreds of times, stolen more paintings than he’d ever be able to keep a count of. He opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue, his eyes lidded in that practiced way, a smile stretching across his lips. 

 

His gaze darted to Yuuri’s, met his, and his throat seemed to dry up.

 

“It’s  _ A Moonlit Night at Sea _ ,” he said instead, uncertainty clear in his voice. 

 

He could feel a mixture of dread and panic rising within him.

 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, this wasn’t what was meant to happen. He was meant to seduce the security guard, negotiate a date to carry out the plan with Georgi, and finally act as a distraction for the person he had seduced. 

 

He would then steal the painting, and hopefully disappear long enough for all the drama about the painting to have died down. The cycle would repeat itself. His lives remaining intact and monotonous.

 

Yet here he was, deviating from his set plan. He wasn’t supposed to be slipping facets of his real self into this person he had created. 

 

He couldn’t dangle his eighth life before this stranger, his seventh wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready.

 

Yuuri tilted his head, “Who is that by? I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”

 

Viktor started to pull out his phone, and Yuuri smiled, scooting closer to him, their arms pressing against each other as Yuuri peered at his Iphone screen. Viktor pressed his thumb to unlock it, loading up safari to type in the name. Yuuri, evidently tired of looking at the phone from the uncomfortable angle, rested his chin on his shoulder, his hair tickling the exposed skin of Viktor’s neck. 

 

Viktor’s heartbeat immediately sped up, and he discreetly tried to take in a deep breath to calm his shaking hands. This was getting ridiculous, the effect that such a small action had. However the fact that it wouldn’t take much for Yuuri to turn his head and kiss his neck, press those lips against his skin wouldn’t leave his mind. The proximity, the tension was driving him mad, and surely Yuuri knew the effect he had on him? 

 

The image loaded up, and Viktor turned up the brightness, handing the phone over to Yuuri. He knew that he was gauging his expression even as he told himself that he wasn't. Of course he was only keeping an eye on his phone in case Yuuri decided he liked the look of his gold iphone and wanted to steal it. 

 

He held his breath.

 

“It’s so beautiful,” He said finally, his voice was filled with sincerity, and Viktor felt like he was overflowing. Yuuri looked up at Viktor, his eyes searching his face, his own expression impassive, earnest. “It looks peaceful.”

 

He licked his lips. 

 

“I always thought it looked a little lonely,” he said. 

 

Pieces of  himself were shaking free and the way that Yuuri’s large eyes fixed on him like he was the most fascinating thing in the world, he couldn’t complain. It was as if when he was with Yuuri he was free to be him without judgement, and without any sort of expectation. He was playing the role of someone else but never had he been more himself before.

 

“Something on my face?” he asked softly, the question being carried away by the rising crescendo of Moonlight Sonata. Yuuri huffed softly, gently pressing his finger against his cheek. He pinched at the skin a little while Viktor held his breath, too startled to move.

 

Yuuri let out a small pleased sound, and held up his finger, “There was an eyelash. Make a wish.”

 

Viktor blew at it blindly, not hiding the fact that he wasn’t taking his eyes off Yuuri.

 

_ I wish I could stay.  _

 

Yuuri smiled shyly, his eyes slowly travelling to his mouth and then flicking back up to look at him. Viktor blinked, biting his lip instinctively, watching Yuuri’s attention zero on that point. He moved closer, tilting his head, his heart beating rapidly. 

 

Yuuri’s eyelashes fluttered, his eyes closing as he leaned towards him. 

 

“Wow, look at that painting!”

 

They both sprung apart, the sound of loud echoing footsteps, and laughter entering the room. He felt like he had run a marathon, his hands shaking at his sides. 

 

Yuuri sighed, a small sound that Viktor was sure he would have missed if he hadn’t been listening. He watched as Yuuri pushed himself off the bench, graceful even in his inane movements, holding out Viktor’s phone. 

 

He raised his hand to take it from Yuuri, his fingers brushing against his, lingering. Yuuri paused, his eyes glinting, and for a second Viktor let  himself believe that Yuuri would lean down and kiss him.

 

There was another loud squealing noise outside, and Yuuri sighed again. Louder this time. Dropping his hand he shot Viktor a small smile.

 

“I’ll see you later?” There was a question in his voice. 

 

Viktor nodded.

 

“I’ll be here.” 

 

Were his words a promise? 

 

_ I wish I could stay. _

 

* * *

 

They had scouted the small auction room. Yuuri was nowhere to be seen much to Viktor’s relief. Or was it dismay? He wasn’t entirely sure about his own feelings. 

 

There was another security guard posted beside the Manet, and two positioned outside the door. The floor looked like it hadn’t been wiped in a few days. A small gift shop was located on the second floor, and Georgi was desperately trying to get one of them to join for proximity sake. 

 

Chris had refused point blank. His expression horrified at the mere thought of retail work. Viktor could relate. The only time either of them had done retail was once together, and they had not only abhorred it, but they had been so bad at it that they were fired. 

 

Soon enough they had started their successful act as rich, cultured foreigners that seemed so out of place and flamboyant that they seemed to almost blend in with the ostentatious air of the decadent show rooms and art galleries.

 

They were stood before  _ La Rêverie _ once more. The dark eyes of the painting always staring. Accusing.

 

“You stare at her like you hurt her,” Chris said, the cut of his cheekbones standing out under the lights of the gallery. His eyes were sharp behind his gold rimmed glasses, an uncomfortable edge to the set of his mouth.

 

He knew he wasn’t talking about her. He didn’t even know if they were talking about  _ him.  _

 

“You know why,” Viktor said. His heart heavy, his hands scrunched up at his sides. The effort of not crushing the expensive cloth of his Bespoke Armani was overwhelming. Instead he smiled, watching Chris’s expression smooth itself over. Like ripples in the water- gone. 

 

“I don’t actually Viktor. I don’t know anything.”

 

He licked his lips, tasted the remnants of his lip balm. Tasted the remnants of blood. 

 

He trusted Chris the most out of all the people he had worked with so far. Yet Chris didn’t know the details of what had happened. Not from the horse’s mouth itself at least. 

 

Chris only knew what he had heard through the grapevine, and Viktor wasn’t sure how much Georgi would have embellished the story. Or what he would have left unsaid. Viktor didn’t want to know, he didn’t want anyone else to know. He ran from the ghosts of his past for the previous two years and he was willing to do it for the rest of his life if it came to that. The raw memory of what he had always felt too fresh and too distant at the same time. 

 

Sometimes, when he had drunk enough and was sat alone in the dark of his flat he’d wonder if that time had been real. Or if he had dreamed up Yuuri with his sharp wit, and soft smiles. He wondered if he had imagined those eyes lighting up from across the room whenever they landed on him. As if his presence alone could brighten up his day. He wondered if his eighth life had passed in a dream that was so chaotic that it took the other seven lives with it. 

 

What was he left with? 

 

“There’s nothing to know,” he said finally, his eyes tracing  _ La Rêverie’s _ eyelashes, desperately trying not to remember the time he’d spent staring at another set of dark lashes. Chris sighed, shifting a little.

 

“Viktor,” the tone of his voice had Viktor stiffening, “Do you think we’re stupid enough to not be able to tell how messed up you came out of the Glasgow job?” 

 

Viktor opened his mouth, but Chris cut him off, ruthless in his attack. 

 

“I’ve seen the ring Viktor.” 

 

It felt like a punch to the gut , the air leaving his lungs. His feelings being laid transparent through what he had considered a hidden gesture. The weight around his neck felt heavy.

 

“You have it on you even now, don’t you? That’s not nothing.” 

 

He wanted to disagree, he wanted to raise his voice and get angry, but it felt like all the fight within him had been sapped out. He turned away from him, continued staring at the painting. Chris didn’t say anything more, just stood beside him, his elbow brushing against his. 

There were a hundred things on his mind, and a two year old memory threatening to drown him, and he wanted to reach back and return to a time where he had thought he had been happy. 

 

Even as he stood in front of what would be classified as a masterpiece and sell for millions he couldn’t find the same thrill in it as he had before. The exhilaration of holding something valuable, and, beautiful, and meaningful had dulled over time. Could Monet compare to Degas, or Degas to Korovin? Did it matter at all when he didn’t care at all. 

 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” It was the only thing that mattered, and Chris pressed on. Drew blood, and Viktor had never wished for him to stop so desperately as he did right now. 

 

“Maybe not to him. But it matters to you,” he said nonchalantly. It was the spoken confirmation he had needed. It had been two years, and there was a lingering silence between Dali and  _ La Rêverie _ , and Chris’s words sat heavily on his heart. 

 

_ It didn’t matter to him anymore.  _

 

His fists were clenched at this sides in an effort to stop them shaking. 

 

“Can I talk to you?” 

 

He raised his eyes, meeting dark ones. Yuuri was standing behind them, maybe he had been for a while, but his thought process seemed to come to a halt as he took him in. 

 

His hair was falling in his eyes, and his eyes were downcast behind the same blue rimmed glasses. He was in a blue vest, the luminous ‘Security’ jumping at him accusingly. Viktor swallowed.

 

The cycle had begun again. Cat and Mouse. 

 

Predator and prey. 

 

They constantly circled each other, a dance, a hunt, maybe two planets in orbit- but who was the one that hurt more?

 

His mind was racing as he tried to debate the possible outcomes to this scenario. The worst case being that Yuuri would immediately report him to the authorities and he would be thrown in prison to rot. The other being that Yuuri wanted to demand he tell him where he kept the stolen Dali, and return it immediately otherwise he would call the authorities. 

 

Maybe he wanted closure. Maybe he’d ask him to leave this place and never come back. 

 

Maybe, a traitorously hopeful part of him whispered, he wanted him back.

 

He licked his lips, acutely aware of Chris watching the exchange. 

 

“Okay.” 

 

* * *

 

They lay tangled together, the bed sheets twisted and dragging on the ground. The snow fell on quietly outside, the soft light of Yuuri’s bedside lamp illuminating the scene from the window. Yuuri was humming sleepily, tracing his fingers over the edges of his shoulder bones, drawing pathways down his spine. 

 

Viktor was reminded absently of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s painting,  _ The Bed _ .  He had heard somewhere that it had been painted to portray lovers because the Painter hadn’t felt love himself. So he had created this beautiful thing, the closest thing he could create to love. 

 

Two lovers who lay intimately experiencing the purest bliss in just each other’s presence. Maybe that’s what he was feeling right now. Pure bliss. 

 

He felt like he was being sheltered against Yuuri’s skin, the world carrying on indifferent, and cold outside. He moved closer to him, kissing his neck softly. Yuuri let out a small huff of laughter, as he continued. 

 

“I wish you knew,” he mumbled in Russian, his mouth pressed against the steady beat of his pulse. Yuuri laughed again, louder this time, his hands stilling on his waist. Viktor pressed another kiss to the junction of his neck and shoulder, trailing his mouth to the underside of his jaw. 

 

“Sergei, that tickles.”  

 

His heart twisted painfully, a desperation overcoming him.

 

“My name is Viktor,” he whispered, “My name is Viktor, and I wish I could tell you, darling. I wish you knew.” 

 

“Sergei, what are you saying?” he laughed, trailing his hands back up to his shoulders and around his neck. Viktor pulled back, took in Yuuri in all of his glory, from the fading bruises on his neck to his kiss bitten lips. The way his eyes were crinkled looking at him, the sweet smile that was just for him that made his heart constrict. 

 

If only Yuuri knew, the number of dark November nights he spent, staring at the ceiling and thinking about his smile, his eyes. If only Yuuri knew the truth. 

 

“I’m just saying,” he pressed a soft kiss to his lips, bringing his hands up to cup his cheeks. “That I could fall in love with you.”

 

* * *

 

He followed Yuuri to the second floor, his eyes running over the fabric clinging to his back. He couldn’t stop looking, trailing behind him awkwardly as he made his way through the corridor and pushed open a door labelled ‘Staff Only.’ 

 

The room was dark, the blinds half open, letting in little to no light. Yuuri was breathing heavily, a flush crawling up the back of his neck. Viktor stood awkwardly as the door slowly slid shut behind him with a loud thud. 

 

“You’re here to steal _La Rêverie_ aren’t you?” His voice was shaking, like it did when he was on the brink of tears. Another painting, another life, and they both were here in the same roles. Viktor’s mouth felt dry, he didn’t know what to say to him. 

 

‘Sorry,’ seemed laughably inadequate. 

 

‘I love you,’ seemed cruel.  

 

“Yes.”

 

Yuuri rounded on him so quickly that Viktor had no time to react, his gloved hands locked into the fabric of Viktor’s shirt, tugging at it violently. There was a manic desperation in his eyes. The tears visible as he had predicted they would be. 

 

How could he unlearn a person?

 

“Why? Why here? Why me, Sergei?” He cried, his voice ringing loudly in the empty room. Viktor flinched, the old name hitting him like a slap across his face. The lies piled heavily on his shoulders.

 

“I didn’t know you would be here-” he started, it sounded like a badly put together defense, and he was struggling to make it more sincere. “I just, please let me explain-”

 

“Explain what?” Yuuri cut him off sharply. His eyebrows were furrowed, tears still swimming in his eyes. He tugged at his shirt again, pulling him and pushing him simultaneously. “Explain what, Sergei? That you were lying the whole time just to steal the Dali? That you pretended to be a completely different person to get to it? That you were  _ using me? _ ”

 

Viktor inhaled sharply.

 

“That’s not true, I wasn’t someone else, it was  _ me,  _ Yuuri.  _ It was always m-” _

 

“How can you  _ say that?”  _ Yuuri cried. His eyes growing steely, tears escaping and sliding down his cheeks. “You stole the Dali, Sergei. I was guarding it, I was  _ supposed _ to be guarding it, but  _ you stole it. _ ” 

 

He pressed his head against Viktor’s chest, and he had to restrain himself from reaching out and pulling im closer. His hands itched with the need to hold him. To console him. 

 

“Don’t steal it.” Yuuri whispered. 

 

Viktor exhaled, it felt like the remnants of broken shards dragging across his skin, his throat closing up painfully. He wanted to be free. He wanted to be free to love him as a man and nothing more. 

 

“I wish I didn’t have to Yuuri,” his voice sounding broken, tired even to his own ears. Yuuri’s shoulders shook and Viktor flexed his fingers, his muscles screaming to move and touch him. But Yuuri didn’t like being consoled by strangers in his weak moments. And that’s what they were. 

 

“Is someone making you do this?” 

 

The names were on the tip of his tongue. He could easily hurl accusations. 

Chris. Yakov. Lilia, maybe. But that wasn’t true was it? He had done this over and over for the exhilaration, to feel alive in his pointless existence. He had wanted to belong to a place he could call his own, and he had tried his best to carve it out with Yakov. But that had never been home. Viktor had done this because he wanted to be free, and he was doing this to be free of the freedom he had craved. 

 

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known how the loneliness would be unbearable- unbearable. How the loneliness would choke him, and he’d give up on everything he had thought he had loved. The emptiness that would take home within him, the-

 

“I waited for you, Sergei.”

 

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes as he took in the weight of the words.  

 

I came looking for you, he wanted to say. I came looking for you at the museum, and there was police everywhere. I went to your apartment, to your favourite cafe, to the university libraries, to the river side hidden behind the trees. I read every article about the story I could find, but I couldn’t find you. I looked, and I looked everywhere. 

 

Instead he says: “My name isn’t Sergei.”

 

Yuuri’s grip on him goes slack, a wet sound escaping him. 

 

“Of course. Of course it isn’t.” He starts to move away, his hands coming up to shield his face like he can’t bear to look at Viktor. 

 

“Yuuri, my name isn’t Sergei, but I’ve never felt more like myself than when I was with you. For the firs-”

 

“Cut out your romantic bullshit,  _ please, _ ” Yuuri had turned away from him, his hands still over his face. His whole body was shaking, small sounds escaping between his fingers, as he wept. He never cursed, and he was now. It was because of him.

 

Viktor watched helplessly. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. It didn’t matter. Inadequate, he was so inadequate. 

 

He imagined this was what devastation felt like. 

 

* * *

 

He was sat across from Chris, staring at a wall lost in thought. Chris was drinking a cup of coffee, while on the phone, the strong smell filling the hotel room. 

 

There were feelings on the tip of his tongue he wanted to describe but he couldn’t. There were two year old aches that threatened to accompany him through the rest of his life. His hands were trembling in his lap, the image of Yuuri’s back etched into his mind. He had taken the ring off, the weight of it too heavy for him to bear. Jesus with his Holy Cross. 

 

Chris had been arguing on the phone for a while now. He was talking in fast paced German, and the only thing Viktor could catch from the conversation was ‘Masumi’ and ‘travel’.

 

He felt guilty. Chris had been trying to help him for so long, and he had been so caught up with his own life that he hadn’t bothered to ask Chris about his, about anything at all. He watched as Chris’s eyes grew dark, a rare flash of anger he wasn’t used to seeing cross his face, followed by hurt. 

 

He watched him cut the call. Throw the phone across the room and watching it hit the floor with a loud clatter. Time stood still as they stared. The sun outside their room started to set, the light fading, dimming.

 

Viktor straightened, and Chris turned to focus on him. 

 

“Are you okay?” Viktor asked. 

 

He didn’t think that he ever had asked. In the years he had known him, there hadn’t been a single moment he had paused, and stopped to ask. Neither had Chris until recently, but that was just how they were. Closed off, confused, charming to the grave, and probably a little lost.

 

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me,” Chris said. His eyes caught the dying light from the large open windows that dotted their room, and there was a split second of vulnerability. 

 

He felt raw, his body like transparent salt. He had created the isolation he found himself in, but he wanted it to stop. He wanted it to end.

 

“Okay. I’ll tell you everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> [Moonlit Night by the Sea by Ivan Aivazovsky](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a4/de/0c/a4de0ce22596511e945e620a5d89bc7e.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Bed by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec ](https://img00.deviantart.net/3db6/i/2014/264/3/e/henri_de_toulouse_lautrec_two_girls_in_bed_by_lucretius22-d8006qm.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to Pine for listening to me ramble and complain and on top of that making amazing artwork that is inspired by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec that I will literally never shut up about: [Here](http://evermoriver.tumblr.com/post/167341121593/salanayuniasis-dans-le-lit-le-baiser-in-the)

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the locations of painting's locations have been shifted for the sake of this fic- however there is a Dali in Glasgow!
> 
> A Renoir was stolen in France recently and you can read about it [here](http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-41456847)
> 
> La Rêverie looks like [this](https://www.pierre-auguste-renoir.org/thumbnail/78000/78969/mini_large/Jeanne-Samary-Aka-La-Reverie.jpg?ts=1459229076)
> 
> Christ of the Saint John of the Cross looks like [this](https://imgc.allpostersimages.com/img/print/posters/salvador-dali-dali-christ-of-st-john-of-the-cross_a-G-9765212-11969363.jpg)
> 
> The Banks of the Seine looks like [this](https://www.sartle.com/sites/default/files/images/artwork/1000798.jpg)
> 
> Viktor references the poem by Gwendolyn MacEwen, "But"
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! I'd love to hear feedback! And thank you to Lambie and Piny for reading over it <3


End file.
